He’d been here before.  He was sure of it; black tablecloths, silver candlesticks, and a flock of penguin waiters.  When had he been here?

“We dreamed this, silly.”  He frowned.  She was gone.

He turned, straightened his shirt, and hitched his jacket.  He hated to admit it, but the breathy woman in his head: she was right.  They had dreamed it.  He tingled at the memory.

A rail of a man with a lantern jaw approached him, a smile stretched across his vast expanse of face.

“Tom!  How are you?”  He rolled his wineglass between thumb and forefinger.

“Good, good.”  There was a hint of perfume on the air.  Tom glanced left.

The other man continued despite Tom’s distraction. “I was glad you didn’t hesitate to call me on that pharmaceutical question.  Was a hundred enough?”

“He’s switched doctors.  It wasn’t working out.”  Tom blinked twice.

The other psychiatrist nodded.  “Well, you know how people are.  They hop around until they find someone who says something palatable.  With schizophrenics it’s so hard to build consistency, especially in cases like you described.”

“I know.  I’m not worried.  It happens to all of us.”  Tom slid his hand into his pocket.  His fingers wrapped around the pill bottle he’d brought.  A clear voice slid hot across his earlobe.

“Come on Tommy.  Tell him.  Tell him who they’re really for.”  He scratched his ear fiercely.

Big Jaw kept talking.  “Well, if you ever need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

Tom saw her.  There, across the room, walking away with ringlets of auburn rolling down her milky shoulders.  He had to catch her.  “Excuse me. . .”

He left the man slack-jawed, no small feat.  He raised his glass to the air and wound through the crowd, trying not to spill.  She was heading toward the ladies room.  He hurried, bumping a dainty girl in a melon fresh dress.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

She looked at him with hazel eyes under long bangs.  “Don’t worry.  It was only an accident.”

Tom nodded with a polite smile and looked back.  The lady was gone.  His disappointment must have been clear.  “What’s the matter, you lose someone?”

“Sort of.  I think she went into the ladies room.”

“Ah, no boys allowed in there.”

“Right.”  He watched the hall.

“I was headed that way to fix the strap on this damn shoe.  Like me to tell her you’re out here?”

He twitched his shoulders in a miniscule shrug.  “I doubt you’ll find her.”

She gave a confused little smile.  “And why would you think that?”

“Well . . .”  Because she’s not real, thought Tom.  “I guess it’s worth a shot.”

She headed for the bathroom, talking over her shoulder as she wove through the party.

“I’m Nancy Penelope, I’m with the Brinthon Group.”  So she wasn’t just someone’s errant date.

“I’m Tom Mackey, independent practice.”  She stopped at the door.

“Who am I looking for?”

“She’s got a red dress, long hair, dark and curly.”

“Does the mystery lady have a name?”

He answered without thinking.  “I hope so.”

This time her confusion was not veiled in a smile.  She entered the ladies room.  He stood there, waiting.  His thoughts turned to the dreams.  All the time spent with his mystery woman, the conversations they had.  He could almost hear her now, in a phantom memory.  She talked about being a dancer, and how she thought ballet would be beautiful on a beach at sunset.  He asked her his same old question.

“Can we be together?”  Her answer was always the same.

“I’m right here, silly man.”

It was never enough of an answer.  It always made him angry.

The door opened on reality and perky Nancy walked out.  The door to reverie shut.  He blinked twice.

“No mysterious ladies in red.”

He nodded.  “I know.”

She looked at him and slid a hand along her hip.  “You are a strange one, aren’t you?”

“No.”

She gave him a final smile, and, not the type to play games, melted back into the crowd of shrinks.  A fingernail ran down his back.

“You’re not attracted to that are you?” Dark curls dripped over his shoulder.  He could smell the shampoo.

“No.”  Had he just hurt her feelings over that woman?  He hoped not.

There was a playful tug at his jacket.  “Come outside so we can talk.  Maybe this time you’ll listen to me.”

He walked alone out of the building.

“I always listen to you.”

“You always hear me.  Not the same.”

He could feel her next to him, but didn’t dare look.  She wouldn’t be there; only a swish of dress, a barely perceptible heat.  They crossed the lawn to look across the lake.  It reflected city lights in a million flashes.  At the railing, he lit a cigarette and contributed his own tiny flash.

“Can we be together?  For real I mean?”  There was longing in his voice.  He was haunted, desperate to know flesh his mind had tasted.

“I’m right here.”

“But we’re not.  Our minds, they’re linked somehow, but we’re apart, our bodies anyway.  I know you’re real, the pills, the pills don’t work!  If you were only a dream, you would have faded.”  He pulled the pills from his pocket, displaying them.

She leaned her frame into him, resting her cheek on his spine.  “Oh Tom, sometimes you have to flip the switch to turn on the lights.”

He let her touch him, almost feeling it.  It was close, so very close, but it wasn’t quite real.

“I want to find you, the real you.  God, I would do anything!  To anyone.  Are you jealous of that girl?  Because I could take care of that.  Whatever it takes!  For you!  Just tell me where you are!”  His face got red with anger and his hand squeezed the sealed bottle, exactly one hundred tiny pills.

Her voice was a little small, a little sad.

“I’m right here Tom, I’m right here.”

—
©2009 Jude W. Mire

The moment Michelle walked into the restaurant’s elegant dining area, she knew that the man sitting alone with slightly hunched shoulders and a felt fedora hat on his head was Caleb Sharpe; Michelle felt sure of it. Her intuition had not let her down yet. Well, maybe once or twice. Her last blind date turned out to be a born-again Christian. He had shown some initial game, but Michelle had lost interest somewhere between “Do you know Jesus?” and “I’d like for you to meet my Mom before we go out again.” And the one before him had been a total geek who had ended a less-than-perfect night by vomiting up the lime slushy he had consumed during their romantic dinner for two at the local burger joint. Moral of the story: don’t believe everything people tell you on Twitter.

But from the first time Michelle had laid eyes on Caleb’s Facebook profile, she had sensed his uniqueness. There was something exotic, something complex about the dull glare in his sad, green eye—the one that wasn’t entirely covered by the white, porcelain mask. To anyone else, the disguise might have been off putting— a little freaky, even. But she suspected Caleb just liked to keep his image dark and mysterious. And since Tom had called off their engagement she hadn’t had much luck with the nice guys. Maybe a bad boy was just what she needed right now.

She had been right. The man was Caleb Sharpe. Michelle introduced herself—this time by her real name and not her username, Cheeky81, which combined the name of her pet silky terrier and her year of birth. The conversation was awkward and a little stilted at first, and Caleb did not laugh at any of her jokes. She was surprised, however, to find that this did not bother her, and that the long silences felt completely natural. He drank a lot and smoked a lot, but was immaculately groomed, except for a little dirt under his fingernails and the slightest hint of BO, which just meant that he was no stranger to hard work. And after a while, she barely noticed the mask at all.

Once during dinner she had asked Caleb why he wore the mask, trying to make the question sound as off-handed as possible.

He shrugged: ‘Severe acne.’

That had been his one attempt at humor for the night. Michelle told him that she didn’t believe him, but assured him that looks were no longer at the top of her list when it came to dating criteria; she had a sneaking suspicion, though, that the uneven scar protruding from the bottom corner of the mask had more to do with Caleb’s reason for hiding his face than a couple of pussy blackheads.

Later that evening, as Michelle licked the ice cream from her desert spoon, she decided to take a huge gamble: she reached across the wine glasses and took Caleb’s hefty hand in hers.

Three hours after that, she found herself taking a shower back at her apartment following a long and fervent love-making session. When she emerged with the towel wrapped around her, she found Caleb dressed and seated at the kitchen table. She smiled: he had discovered her collection of old records, and the rickety sound of Dean Martin singing “Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime” filled the room. Michelle hadn’t felt in such high spirits in a long time. Caleb had his back to her and was hunched over the shot of bourbon she’d poured him in the bedroom. She hadn’t realized how broad his shoulders were until now, and she felt a sudden pang between her legs again. A plume of cigarette smoke hung over Caleb’s head. His hat was still sitting on the bedroom floor, where he had left it. He had removed it earlier, exposing a think shock of closely cropped hair. But Michelle also noticed with growing excitement that there was no visible chord around his head now, which meant that he had finally removed that bothersome mask. Her heart rate quickened with the anticipation of gazing upon her lover’s face for the first time.

She took a quick step toward him, but froze when he spoke.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” He said this casually and without turning.

“Yes,” she said, knowing almost as soon as the words left her lips that she was not.

Caleb slowly turned, exposing first the half of his face that had not been hidden by the mask, and after only a second’s hesitation, the remainder.

Michelle’s breath caught in her throat.

He was more handsome than any living man she had ever met. Her intuition had not led her astray this time. She had known the instant her hand had closed over his arctic fingers; had sensed it in the stillness of his chest when she had borne his weight, and in the strange odor that no amount of cologne could neutralize.

“Now do you understand?” he asked, and turned away.

“Yes,” she repeated, almost in a daze. Then: “Will I …”

Caleb injected another column of smoke into the air. “No, it won’t change you. I was just unlucky; in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The flesh on one side of his face was completely gone, revealing the inner-workings of his jaw bones and teeth. Smoke seeped out from where his cheek ought to have been. Michelle could see his tongue lolling around in his mouth. His good eye was green, but the other was blind and as white and congealed as a melted marshmallow.

Rising from his chair, Caleb said, “I had better go.”

“No.” she said, closing the distance between them. “Stay.” She put one hand on his shoulder, and he stiffened. She ran a finger along the serrated strip of decomposing flesh. “So you’re a Zombie. But you’re still less of a freak than some of the other guys I’ve dated. And no-one could ever accuse you of being boring.”

Michelle leaned in and kissed him, and was amused to see the tip of her tongue protruding from Caleb’s jowl. Nope, she thought, definitely not boring.

—
©2009 Eugene Gramelis

Eugene Gramelis lives in Sydney, Australia with his beautiful wife and two gorgeous daughters. He is a barrister during the day, but when darkness falls he turns his restless pen to writing horror and crime. He is an active member of the Australian Horror Writers’ Association, the Australian Society of Authors, the NSW Writers’ Centre as well as an associate member of the NSW Society of Editors. Eugene has had the following short stories accepted for publication: The Chanting (June 2008,MicroHorror); Ice Fishing (July 2008, Crime and Suspense Magazine); and Thirty Seconds (May 2010, Afterburn SF). Eugene may be contacted at engramelis@hotmail.com